


Pinecones

by an_apple_for_him



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15554094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_apple_for_him/pseuds/an_apple_for_him





	Pinecones

The man sat across from him was tapping his foot, glancing up at the sky anxiously. Waiting. The train bumbled along through the countryside. Fields blew by like large, yellow and green oceans. The occasional cow or sheep would dot the horizon. It was all just minor details in the vast expanse of life. 

James sat with a newspaper. All boring, mundane things. A few carriage accidents and the stocks. How things were looking with crops and other such things. It would be boring, ordinarily, but with nothing else to do, it was the best source of entertainment. Gradually, his attention wavered from the paper, and towards the gentleman he shared the cabin with. 

Soon he was simply staring over his newspaper shield, observing the image before him carefully. A canvas bag sat beside the man, which appeared to be strangely formed from the contents within. He knew the man was travelling, as he had placed his bag above the carriage. He had a rather large wine-coloured suitcase, weather worn and held together by a tattered zipper and a couple of distressed straps. 

The man himself seemed quite well off, a long tailcoat draped over his arm and his bleach white shirt tucked neatly into his trousers. His waistcoat was still buttoned around his middle and a pocket watch chain hung neatly from the button. One might expect him to be part of the army, or a politician, though the fact that he was travelling indicated otherwise. 

Quite the peculiar character indeed, James began to make his observations more material. He smiled as he made notes in his brain. The man seemed deep in thought, gazing emptily out upon the expanse of greenery before them. James looked him up and down once again, before the man turned to face him. He pulled the newspaper up to cover his face. 

The man shifted in his seat, fixing how he was seated to reflect an air of superiority. “If you're going to look at me like that, we might as well break the ice?” The man had a pristine British accent, as though he were descended from the queen herself. He extended a gloved hand out to James. “What is your name?”

James seemed to consider this gesture, putting down the papers and looking carefully at the man. Looking into his eyes, they were like stones. Exposing nothing, presenting no information for him to try and take away. They almost seemed glossed over. “James.” He answered, still somewhat curious about the gentleman before him. He tentatively took the man’s hand, shaking it firmly. As he went to drew away, the man tightened his grip.

The man smiled softly. “James...” He repeated to himself. “You’re twenty one, looking for a bit more independence from your parents, who seem quite often suffocating to you. They want you to farm as you’re used to hard work and the rewards of it, that much is evident from the state of your trousers - stitched up several times, you’re from a poor background and cannot afford to buy a new pair - and your boots, the scuff marks and dung baked into the sole are quite telling. Farming may have suited you as a young boy but as a young man? You’d rather put your intellect to good use through schooling or some other profession that requires you to use it more frequently. Possibly consulting of a sort, or something that involves putting your problem solving abilities to good use. You’re heading to London, as you hear it is the land of opportunity for farmers like you. All rightly so. You plan to take things as they come. Not the smartest plan if I do say but you’re intelligent enough to worm your way out of that one. Am I correct in saying so?” The man spoke softly, tugging out his pocket watch and checking the time with his free hand.

“Something like that.” James frowned slightly in curiosity. It was true, his plan was to go into London to find more stimulating work than repetitively plowing the fields, but how this man could have made the observation was beyond him.He scooted forward in his seat, fascination overpowering all logic in his brain.“If you’ll pardon my asking, what is your name?”

The man seemed pensive for a long while, looking James in his dark, almost black eyes. “Mycroft Holmes.” The man replied after a time, voice cool and collected. For some strange reason, it sent a shudder up James’ spine. Mycroft Holmes. What an extraordinary name. 

The train began to draw to a stop and Mycroft finally released his hand, getting to his feet and shrugging his jacket over his shoulders. “It was a pleasure meeting you James, I hope you get to wherever you are needed unharmed.” Mycroft stated plainly, taking down his suitcase and angling his head respectfully towards James. 

Without another word, he was gone, and James found himself in some sort of stupor. How could that man possibly have known so much? He only broke out of his stupor when he noticed the misshapen bag that had been left on the seat. He grabbed hold of it, getting to his feet and calling to the conductor to hold the train. He tugged down his own suitcase and made his way to the door, stepping down and thanking the conductor as the train began to pull away. 

James looked around, chewing his lip thoughtfully. The man who he had previously been sat with, was nowhere to be seen. He paused for a moment, wincing slightly. Had he made a mistake getting off the train into London?

He caught glimpse of a familiar looking tailcoat. His heart rose, and he began to walk forward. “Mr. Holmes?” He called, his pace quickly turning to a jog. He watched as the man continued forth, getting a clearer view of him. A drop of water fell on his face and he scrunched his nose. He hadn’t anticipated rain. 

Gradually, he got closer, calling out for the man once again. The rain only worsened as he jogged to catch up to the coated figure. “Mr. Holmes!” He tried to get the man’s attention, speeding up. Eventually he caught up to the man, grabbing his sleeve and forcibly stopping him. The man he had grabbed turned sharply on his heel.

“What do you want?!” The man demanded, accent sounding slightly off. 

“Your bag.” James gasped for air. “You left it on the train. I’m sorry if it got a bit damp, I don’t have an umbrella.”

The man said nothing. James leaned onto his knees, accidentally dropping the bag and spilling the contents. He frowned in confusion. Acorns?

“I didn’t leave my bag on the train.” The man retorted haughtily. “In fact, I haven’t been on a train at all in the past ten years, are you mad?” James frowned. He had just wanted to return Mycroft’s bag, even perhaps chat a bit more with the man. The deductions he had so effortlessly produced were quite marvellous. But this man...

It wasn’t Mycroft. The thought only just struck him. “Correct you are, my good sir. If you’ll pardon my assistant, he can be terribly forgetful.” There came the poignant accent he recalled from the train. James looked up, but didn’t turn around to the source of the noise behind him. He crouched to gather the acorns into the bag once again. 

“Oh, I see. Well keep your assistant under control next time. I’m quite basically sodden just from standing here.” The man grumbled, fixing his attire and then storming off in a hurry. 

James heard footsteps coming closer behind him. “You came after me?” Mycroft teased, and James felt as the pitter patter of the rain stopped on his back and head. He stood and turned to face Mycroft, looking the man in his pale, icy eyes once again. An umbrella, just like he had seen the man toting on the train. Perhaps James should have thought to pack one.

“You're carrying around a bag full of acorns?” He said incredulously, presenting the bag for Mycroft to observe. “I jumped my stop to return your bag of acorns?” 

Mycroft smiled cockily. Jim couldn't even bring himself to express emotion. He took several deep breaths, shutting his eyes tightly. The only chance he had at leading a better life, the only money he had saved, all so easily torn away by this man he had met on the train. He wanted to sock him, beat him senseless and mug him for all he had on him. Buy another train ticket with the expensive pocket watch. Pay for a cab even. The man clearly hadn’t suffered a life of poverty growing up, he could manage a couple hours of it if James chose to act upon it.

In his head, this was how their first meeting had gone. When he opened his eyes he was no longer in the middle of the street. Rather, he was leaning heavily forward on a desk, arms shaking slightly. Several decades in the future, in a world which had lost such simplicities. 

“Is there something so wrong about that?” Mycroft patronized from his seat before Moriarty.   
James clenched his jaw, forcing himself to control his irritation. It had been a bar in Dublin. They just started talking over some drinks and the conversation soon led to them slipping away to a more intimate setting, and the following morning proved to be the most telling. By that morning, Mycroft knew everything there was to know, and had even asked if he could make use of James’ services. Consulting criminal. There weren't many of those kicking around. 

“I’m not your fucking errand boy, Mycroft!” James snapped, lunging forward and taking the knock of his knee against the mahogany as a reminder to breathe. It was forced, struggled. He squeezed a breath from between his teeth. “Don’t you understand my life is on the line?”

Mycroft remained totally calm. “Calm down James, you get paid all the same.” He reasoned, settling back in his chair and showing body language that indicated his fear, or lack thereof. “It was to test your reliability. I wanted to see if you’d prove to be an asset or a hindrance. Necessary precautions, you understand?”

James took several deep breaths. He glanced up the man who had requested his services. No fear. Not even a remote sense of apprehension. He was under control in some strange way, and James hated it. “Did I pass your little test then?” He demanded, taking a step away and doing his best to regain composure. 

Mycroft nodded pensively. “Indeed. Well done.” He muttered, a small congratulatory gesture. James frowned. “You'll prove to be useful yet.”

"Yet?" James asked, raising an eyebrow. "If you can keep me occupied long enough to stick around that is. If I'm just running around stealing acorns for you I don't know how long I'll feel happy to be your little servant." He spat, kicking off of the ground and starting his trek to the door. 

"£15,000 for your next mission." Mycroft called, making James pause. "I need you to help me get rid of a pest. He goes by the name of Charles Edinborough. He's the CEO of a major corporation in Yorkshire and is currently causing us quite a few issues with tax evasion and regulatory visits. Sounds small, but he will not listen to reason and the government cannot sway him. This is something of a last resort. It must not look intentional though; I believe you would expect that." Mycroft proposed, dangling the idea like bait in front of James’ face. James' nose twitched. 

"For 15 grand?" He replied, not turning to face Mycroft, but body language clearly easing. He seemed to contemplate it for a moment. "You'll hardly even see a mark." James replied, turning to Mycroft once again and taking one of the business cards off of Mycroft’s desk. He carefully took out his pen, scribbling something down before sliding the card toward Mycroft. He smiled, shaking his phone visibly in his hand. "Call me with the rest of the information, I want to be sure I do a good job with such a large sum at stake."

"Do a good job and you can expect much more Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft smiled. 

A consulting criminal being hired by a member of the British government to rid the world of pests and potentially even threats. James smirked. How ironic.


End file.
